


If We Manage to Get This Right

by elanor_BleuNoir



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_BleuNoir/pseuds/elanor_BleuNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were three nights when silence fell between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Manage to Get This Right

**Author's Note:**

> This relationship could also be interpreted as more of a father-and-son kind of tie than a romantic one – open to different interpretations.  
> I’m trying my best to keep the historical accuracy while referring to certain parts of the musical; however, my knowledge is limited, so feel free to correct any mistake I make!

One

_He is old now._

The thought did not occur fast to him, nor did it do so with ease. It was, however, sudden. They were in Washington’s office, sitting on opposite sides of the desk, paper piled up on the desk.

It surprised Alexander Hamilton when he realized that it had already been a score since he had known his Commander-in-Chief, his President, his… He could not bear to think more. It would be too hard to decipher, the one last word, what the man truly meant for him.

Washington was old now.

This thought was rather strange, since the moment Hamilton knew him Washington was, technically, old—fifty was old enough an age for anyone, especially a general like Washington. Yet he was always so vigorous, so charismatic that never would a single human being associate him with that word; he would be the Commander-in-Chief only the tiniest bit older, if not as young as, his soldiers. Never had a person in the Continental Army expect Washington to be old.

Similarly, it seemed that never had a single Congressman expect him to be old. Alexander understood why they had thought that way, but at this moment, staring at the older man’s countenance, he again couldn’t make sense why none of them saw it: time had indeed made its mark all over the man dearest to America. Wrinkles have climbed ruthlessly all the way across Washington’s brow; the skin around his eyes was loose as that of any old man’s, pushing those once bright and powerful eyes smaller and narrower each day; the area between his nose and his chin was flat yet somehow swollen, indicating his suffering from the loss of teeth. Hair, too, was an indicator of age: Washington no longer needed powder to keep his hair white.

“What are you thinking now, Alexander?”

Washington’s words pulled Hamilton back from his thoughts into reality: the office. A faint candlelight. Moon was shining bright on the other side of the window. Washington’s voice was the only thing unchanged since Hamilton knew him. This time it was soft as always when he spoke to the younger man; Hamilton knew how sonorous, how _definite_ it could be when giving commands. He couldn’t help his thoughts from drifting to older days; this was meant to be a night of reminiscence. Hamilton sighed.

“You deserve a break, sir.”

The ghost of a smile formed on Washington’s lips. “I guess that is the reason I ask for your presence here.”

“I know.”

“I know it will not be easy for you.”

“Do you expect me to deny, sir?”

Washington shook his head silently.

“Do you want me, then, to deny, sir?”

“Never.” Washington finally spoke; his tone carried unease. “I just have always known that it would not be easy.”

“I will not be the only one; but what choice indeed do I have, sir, besides accepting the truth? America never expected you to grow old.”

The last words rushed out of his mouth without any thought beforehand and Hamilton immediately regretted as soon as he uttered them. There was a moment of silence between them; Washington dropped his eyebrows and said nothing, Hamilton too ashamed for how blunt he was still to say anything.

“I’m sorry.” Hamilton whispered after a moment.

“Do not be.” Washington’s tone was gentle as usual. “It’s time for America to know, then.”

A feeling beyond his own control was rising slowly from Hamilton’s chest; he bit his lips as his gaze shifted down to his own hands. They were trembling.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed: another pair of hands, larger, stronger and more tender than his own, took those trembling hands in them. Hamilton lifted up his head and met Washington’s gaze. He was unable to speak as words choked in his throat, and in the faint candlelight, he found it hard to interpret what the older man’s eyes said, or to even focus his vision properly, since it was already blurred by tears.

Silence again fell between them.

 

Two

When recalling his younger days, Hamilton always had the tendency not to remember memories related to tensions and conflicts. Which was a wise decision in most cases; he had enough tensions and conflicts in his present life to worry about.

But when remembering his days in Washington’s camp, the memory most vivid to him – the reason of which, perhaps, was decided due to its intense nature – was that concerning the only big quarrel between him and Washington in the dead of that Virginian winter.

“I need you here by my side, son!” Washington’s voice was no longer soft and tender when he spoke those words; the commands were fierce, the words definite.

“I am not your son.” Hamilton snapped, waving his hands in the air impatiently, “How long do we have to wait before we finally win this war? How many losses do we bear? How many worthless fools like Charles Lee do we yet have to encounter? How do we win this war like this, sir?” His face felt like burning; his eyes were blazing with fury, filled with the frustration under the lack of recognition.

“I know what we can bear, what we can still bear, how long we can pull through.” Washington, too, was furious; his voice resonated in the tiny cabin, deep and demanding. Hamilton felt he had never seen his Commander like this, not even at the worst of times. But that did not stop him from saying what he wanted to say.

“Why? Why wouldn’t you give me a single chance of promotion? Why do I need to watch fools lead troops and ruin men’s lives? Do you not trust me, General Washington? What fear do you ha—”

“Enough!” Washington growled, “Do you even know what responsibility it is to have the lives of thousands under your hands and your command? What risks, what dangers, what pressure, what forced choices?”

“Ha! Responsibility? Do I know not enough responsibility like you do, now, are you trying to prove me, my Commander?”

“Son—”

“I’M NOT YOUR SON!” Hamilton was almost screaming now. Somewhere in his brain a voice told him to stop, yet he couldn’t restrain his temper; maybe Washington was right. Maybe he didn’t deserve to command troops and have the power over thousands of men’s lives. But right now, at this moment, his heart refused to believe so. “I am tired of being your son! What am I, the forever submissive son of yours? I have no father, General, none! I refuse,” he gasped in the lack of air, “to say that I have ever had a father. Do not try to tie me to you by familial ties. That never works for me.”

“Alexander, I never tried to do so.”

Washington was looking tired now; tired of arguing with him pointlessly, perhaps, Hamilton thought. But the more he thought of it, the more frustration it brought to him: what value, if at all, of him is important to Washington? What place in his Commander’s heart does he stand?

If he couldn’t get the best, quit. Better not have it at all. That had been Alexander Hamilton’s life philosophy.

Therefore what happened did not surprise himself at all—if it surprised Washington to any extent he would even be somehow satisfied—it would be, in a few years, recognized as a rash, blunt and reproachful demeanor, but at that moment Hamilton did not regret it.

“Fine. I resign.”

Those words just jumped out of him like they were meant to exist in this moment; they hung in the air. Hamilton finally stopped and paused for air, deciding not to speak again unless his Commander says something else to make him stay; Washington was taking in those words, a confounded look upon his face, as if he never expected this to come, never thought the bicker would have gone this far.

“You have the right to do so, Colonel Hamilton.” Washington finally spoke. This time, however, Hamilton did not find the words or even the power to respond.

He never thought it would hurt that much.

 

Three

Washington was the last person still on his side.

Hamilton had come to this realization not so long ago. It did not strike him down with fear; he had known better. If it had bothered him, it would be to the tiniest extent. In fact, the only thing he felt was the emptiness and loneliness that started long ago and refused to end.

He had lost Laurens already. Forever. Long ago. He would not see Lafayette on his side, most probably, for the next few decades if they both live to that long, due to the complicated situations both of them were in. He had lost Madison to Jefferson. Jefferson was never on his side. Washington was indeed the only one who would still support and tolerate him unconditionally, just like… he could not bear to think more of it, what their relationship really was.

He tended to think more of good memories between them. Wine, warmth, merriness. Every so often he would trace his own memory back to the time around a decade ago, not so long after he had lost the closest friend he had ever gotten and not so long before a new nation was founded upon the pillars of his own writings and thoughts. It was a private evening he shared with Washington, an evening he should cherish until the very end of his days.

It was an ordinary evening, no different than any other one; dusk was fading silently into the tender embrace of night, and Washington was standing in the parlor, near the windows. Hamilton was then still drenched in the sadness of losing Laurens, at least partly; Washington gave him the most comfort. He remembered leaning against the dining table, watching the older man’s silhouette against the gentle curtain of night, a tall and lean figure against the fading light.

“I’ve heard that you have been elected into Congress. New convention?” Washington’s soft tone broke the silence.

“Yes, sir.” Hamilton replied, “A new system will have to be built. We are truly a new nation now.”

Washington nodded. “I will be there. You know that.”

“Of course they have to have you there, sir.” Hamilton chuckled.

“No, Alexander.” Washington turned around. Hamilton saw that his Commander curled his lips into a smile when he spoke. “You know what I mean. I will be there for you.”

“Shall I believe that you are either teasing or doting on your young soldier, my General?” Hamilton, too, smiled.

“Neither, in fact.” Washington walked up to the table and seized the bottle of wine there. He spoke as he gently poured the dark liquid into two glasses on the table. “Why don’t we raise a glass again? For our new nation.”

“You seem glad, sir.”

“Why would I not be? I _am_ glad.”

They drank several glasses, and several more. Hamilton felt his face heating up, his heart pounding in his chest with a complexity he couldn’t understand. Washington was rising now; he reached out a hand, which Hamilton took almost spontaneously.

“Shall we?” His Commander whispered.

And they danced. Washington was an excellent dancer; Hamilton was catching up on his paces. They needed no rhythm, no song to dance to; the evening itself was the most wonderful melody. Silence fell like a charming web, entrapping both of them in this momentary happiness. Hamilton looked into Washington’s eyes, and felt the other man’s gaze upon his.

“If we could only manage to get this right, Oh Alexander.” Washington sighed, before silence again took them over and they danced in the tenderness of that fading evening, slowly, silently.

 

Four

They were in his office; Hamilton was tracing Washington’s contour under the candlelight with his eyes. The day had been long, and silence seemed like the only reality between them besides each other’s warmth, exchanged by the touching of hands.

And then the thought suddenly occurred to him.

_Washington would die._

Not now, but someday. Probably not a day so far away; the man America had asked so much from had been drained already by his nation. Hamilton tried hard to blink away his tears.

“You deserve a rest now, sir.” He was shocked to find his voice low and almost broken.

Silence was still looming over them; neither man knew what to say, since both were hit by the same epiphany.

_But, my Commander, to America you would be alive forever._

_America needs you._

_I need you._

Those words he never managed to say; they would be too blunt for expressing his feelings, and too selfish for their purposes.

_If we could only manage to get this right._

Hamilton did not try to break the silence this time. Instead, he withdrew his hands from Washington’s grasp and took his Commander’s hands in his. He held them gently, held them to his lips and planted a soft kiss on Washington’s fingertips.

“One last time.” He whispered.

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this piece.  
> I was thinking about including Washington's death at the end, but decided not to. We all know what happened in the end (which is probably why all history RPFs are kind of sad) as well as Alexander did; why add more sorrow where there should be less?  
> When I started writing this I was thinking more of a father-son relationship; in the end I found it hard to keep it non-romantic.  
> Also, Washington was indeed an excellent dancer.  
> Feel free to comment if you have any thoughts! :D


End file.
